ParadiseLost
by antepathy
Summary: Perceptor couldn't stay behind on Cybertron.Drift/Perceptor, sticky, angst, MTMTE spoilers.


NC-17  
>IDW MTMTE<br>Drift/Perceptor  
>sticky, angst<br>SO lookie there, Percy's on the Lost Light. 

Perceptor stood, suddenly awkward in the doorway of the quarters he'd claimed aboard the Lost Light. "Drift." He braced himself, expecting accusation, recrimination, questioning: why he'd at first refused to join them. He'd had his reasons—he'd thought—but somehow he'd found himself and a case of equipment, sheepish, barely able to mumble his name for Red Alert's roster.

Drift stepped forward, crossing the threshold, and Perceptor found himself pulled into a fierce hug, the mech helm burrowing into his shoulder. "Good to see you." The words vibrated against him, warm and sincere.

And a little frightening. Drift had every reason to be furious at him: he'd avoided the Medibay during Drift's recovery, too shy to know what to say after their long absence, too afraid that they had become strangers to each other. It couldn't be this easy.

"Drift. I'm sorr—oof!" A squeeze, hard, the swordsmech's powerful arms jolting the word from him.

"No talk like that," Drift said, tipping his head up, tilted optics wide and blue, lakes of earnestness. One hand shifted, and Perceptor found himself tugged down, his protesting frown mashed into a kiss that stirred up old memories like nervous rousted birds. His own hands clutched at the white spaulders, new and foreign. Everything about Drift was new and foreign, new and different and strange. It was like he didn't recognize Drift, didn't know him, and it made him wonder if he ever had.

But the kiss was familiar, the glossa probing into his mouth, flirting with his dentae, and the soft hum of the engine idling against his, familiar enough that long-dormant desires flared to life like breathed-on embers. He wanted to protest, but the closeness, the heat, the touch of Drift's hands, his mouth, against him battered his resolve.

"Missed you," Drift whispered, nearly feeding the words to Perceptor, mouth on mouth. Perceptor shivered in the heat of a sudden rise of desire, memory surging over him. He slapped at the door controls, the light security locks of the lower quarters sliding shut, closing them in together. Drift registered it just enough to give a teasing, familiar growl, pushing Perceptor back in the cramped room to the berth.

He felt the cold, hard bar of the berth against his shins, and then felt his gravity swing backward, Drift pushing him forward until he sat, hard, on the berth, the white mech sliding down between his knees, parting them with his body. Drift knelt between his feet, grinning up at him, fingertips stroking down the chassis to tease his inner thighs. Perceptor's spike surged behind its cover, as though reaching for Drift, even before the black fingers stroked over the interface hatch, the thumbs circling the spike's housing. Drift gave a snorting, shy laugh, before bending down, keeping his optics locked with Perceptor's, flicking out his glossa to circle the spike's housing.

Perceptor gasped, hands clutching the edge of the berth. "Drift!"

A chuckle, that vibrated along his spike as it broke through the barrier. He felt the curl of a glossa around his spike, sliding over the lubricant, investigating the sensor nodes, the mouth parting, taking him in, the hands sliding over his silver thighs, curling over his hips. He groaned, his spike leaping into the other's mouth, the tilted optics lidding with drowsy desire as Drift began rocking against him, moving his mouth over the spike, his glossa flicking like a serpent over the contours and ridges.

Perceptor's thighs trembled, his knees pressing in against Drift's broad shoulders, feeling the rumbling of desire from the other mech, Drift's own arousal skittering over his EM field like a fire.

He threw his head back, spinal struts shocking upright, the overload slamming into him, hard waves of desire, long repressed bursting forth over him, flooding familiar channels, as transfluid gushed from his spike. Drift gave a contented sound, hands clutching over Perceptor's hip plates, and he drew his mouth, slowly, off the spike, pausing with little teasing licks along the contours, dropping back on his heelplates, looking up at Perceptor, grinning.

The hot look, blazing with desire and emotion, sent another wave of tremors over Perceptor's frame and whatever words he'd been about to say died out in a sort of choked sound. Drift pushed up, mouth teasing against Perceptor: he could feel the friction-born heat, taste the sweet tang of his own transfluid over the sensuous contours of the mouthplates.

"I never told you before, Perceptor," Drift murmured, his optics almost too bright to bear, like staring into a supernova: light and earnestness so bright they cut. "I love you." The mouth quirked into an impish grin, but Perceptor could see the flare of emotion at the words, the glimmer of the fear of rejection.

Perceptor's optics dimmed at the words, hearing the ring of truth. He'd wanted that to be the truth—who wouldn't? Drift was beautiful, honorable, strong. The only obstacle in the way was…himself, his own acute unworthiness. He had less than half of Drift's fire and will, Drift's faith. Even here, even now, he was here, not because he believed in the Knights of Cybertron, but because he believed in Drift, wanting to believe in the future Drift could imagine, like a feeble creature huddling in the light of another sun.

"Never seemed…safe, to say it before," Drift said, as if amused by his former caution. "But now." His hands silked down Perceptor's thighs, "there's no need for secrets, hiding to protect ourselves." His smile was incandescent. "Now, the war's over and we can finally all stand in the sun."

Perceptor was humbled by the belief, by the ardent faith that seemed to shimmer and ripple in front of him, glowing, taking him within its circumference. "We can," he said, finally, hating the wet ripple over the optics, as Drift registered that he didn't say he loved him too. Hating that he couldn't say it, couldn't explain.

He stroked a hand over Drift's shoulder, consoling, apologizing. "Maybe one day," he whispered, a feeble offering, a dried leaf in the lush garden of Drift's hopes. Drift took the meaning, his happy expression crumpling like collided steel. And he stood, and turned, the promise, the plea, aching between them.


End file.
